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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29549892">parallelism</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clementessa/pseuds/Clementessa'>Clementessa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cloud Strife Needs a Hug, Cloud Strife is not a good communicator, Established Cloud/Aerith, F/M, Found Family, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Barret/Tifa, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, and therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:20:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,748</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29549892</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clementessa/pseuds/Clementessa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Even after his happily ever after, Cloud struggles to cope with the scars he bears. Thankfully, he's got family to guide his way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aerith Gainsborough/Cloud Strife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>parallelism</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I love them I love them I love them</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cloud loads the last of the crates into the bed of his blue pickup truck and closes the hatch. He still reads the words emblazoned on the side with pride and awe.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Gainsborough’s Gardens </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Fresh Produce and Florals Daily</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Their hard work is finally paying off. He makes deliveries farther and farther afield each week, occasionally as far as Kalm. The quiet solo drives still make his hands shake and his mind wander where he’d rather they not, as if his body isn’t used to sitting still for so long, but the end goal is worth it.</p><p> </p><p>Every person who tastes Aerith’s produce says it’s the best they’ve ever had.</p><p> </p><p>He shucks off his work gloves and tosses them into the center console. He’s about to haul his ass into the driver’s seat but stops, realizing he still needs his coffee.</p><p> </p><p>Now that he doesn’t have a world to save, he’s had the time to fully nurture a caffeine addiction.</p><p> </p><p>Cloud slams the door shut and heads back into the house—<em>their</em> house. The cobblestone path he built winds between her flowerbeds up to the steps of their squat yellow farmhouse and the veranda that wraps all the way around. They’re just beyond Midgar’s shadow and have enough land to grow a real garden—real food, the kind that the slums hadn’t tasted for decades.</p><p> </p><p>“Again?” Aerith huffs from the porch, hands propped into her hips. She wears a wide-brimmed straw hat and oversized pink garden overalls. He doesn’t have to look at her to know that she’s smiling. He hears it in her voice like music.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, Boss.” He shrugs sheepishly, as he strides back into the kitchen to grab his travel mug. When he returns, she’s waiting for him by the truck, coyly twirling a daisy in her hands.  She slips it into the outer chest pocket of his leather jacket. It’s fragrant but not cloying.</p><p> </p><p>He hides his smile. He likes the reminder of her, a reminder of what he gets to come home to if he can just make it through the day.</p><p> </p><p>She kisses him again, their second goodbye this morning. She pulls back quickly, only a peck, but he presses his fingertips to her cheek, asking her to linger. And she does, all the while pulling up his collar against the morning chill in the air.</p><p> </p><p>He hates conversation, hates the cold prickle along the back of his neck when too many eyes are on him, but he’ll never tire of talking to her like this. A language all their own.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’ll miss you.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I’ll miss you too, Mister. Now skedaddle. You’re late.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>He has to physically haul himself away from her and into the truck, but when he drives off, he watches her waving at him in his rear-view mirror until she fades into the distance.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Cloud is absolutely hopeless in the kitchen, so Aerith does most of the heavy lifting. Her cooking is burnt more times than not—certainly nothing like his mother’s or Elmyra’s—but Cloud’s still grateful; he’d starve without her.</p><p> </p><p>He’s chopping vegetables for dinner, committed to doing his part, even if he usually ends up cutting himself. He’s working at the kitchen table so he can rest his sore legs and back and keep her company while she labors over dinner. More than anything, he’s glad for the weekend—no more deliveries and most importantly, no more damn driving.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want to do tomorrow?” He asks her, peeling an onion.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t tell me you forgot,” She says, smiling over her shoulder at him.</p><p> </p><p>Cloud freezes. “Huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the wedding!”</p><p> </p><p>He groans. <em>Ah, shit.</em> He loves Tifa and Barret, but…</p><p> </p><p>He’s turned into a homebody. He’s happiest here—him and her and the daisies she grows on the sill. Why go anywhere else? Especially when the wedding will be all the way in Midgar, in the new Sector 7.</p><p> </p><p>When he says so, she frowns. “We can’t not go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, we can. We can make up an excuse. Like we got food poisoning or something.”</p><p> </p><p>She stares at him from across the room, folding her arms across her chest. “But we’re not sick, Cloud. And they’re our friends.”</p><p> </p><p>“They’ll understand.” Cloud shrugs, focusing intently on his onion so he can avoid her gaze. But there’s a tightness growing across his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s more important than Barret and Tifa?” She asks, confused.</p><p> </p><p><em>Me.</em> He thinks to himself, petulant. W<em>hat about what I want? </em>He’s had so much taken from him. All he wants is this one thing, this one little thing that gives him peace. Does that make him so terrible?</p><p> </p><p>He sighs. He knows the answer from the way she’s looking at him. “You’re right,” he replies, forcing a shrug. His frustration rises but he pushes down. It feels all wrong. He’s strangely empty where he should feel full. Shouldn’t he be happy to celebrate two of his closest friends? Two people who have saved his ass more times than he can count.</p><p> </p><p>Some friend he is.</p><p> </p><p>He tamps down on it, all of it. He’s agreed to go. What’s done is done. But instead of subsiding, the pressure in his chest mounts until he feels like he’s about to explode.</p><p> </p><p>That’s when he realizes: he’s a ticking timebomb.</p><p> </p><p>“Cloud, you have those serious eyes again. What’s going on?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing,” he says immediately, picking up his knife and starting to chop. He uses more force than he needs to, as if he could drown out his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>It should scare him to be so on edge, so close to chaos.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, it’s a relief.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The wedding is beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>Tifa is radiant in a high-necked lace gown that hugs her every curve. Barret, clean-shaven in a crisp black suit, is virtually unrecognizable but even Cloud begrudgingly admits that he looks <em>damn</em> fine<em>. </em>They’re a perfect fit.</p><p> </p><p>He can tell she’s jittery at all the attention. But it melts away the minute she locks eyes with Barret. They beam at each other in a way that makes even Cloud feel like he’s witnessing something special.</p><p> </p><p>Love becomes them.</p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, the new Seventh Heaven is filled to the brim. Warm string lights crisscross along the exposed wooden beams overhead and fresh roses from Aerith’s garden adorn the entryway arch and the center of each round cocktail table.</p><p> </p><p>Everyone is in attendance, from eccentric Bugenhagen to the impeccably dressed (former) Turks and even a sobbing, heart-broken Johnny. He can’t turn around without recognizing another person he’d forgotten he knows.</p><p> </p><p>Tifa wanders around, topping up the glasses and nobody declines. It’s still slum moonshine that burns out of every orifice, but it might as well be champagne. The air is heady with it, this fleeting effervescence.</p><p> </p><p>Saving the world has sure netted them a strange group of friends.</p><p> </p><p>Cloud soaks it all in.</p><p> </p><p>Tifa and Barret grinning hand in hand, chatting with the remnants of AVALANCHE as well as Tseng and Reeves. Cloud can tell when the conversation turns towards politics and the new government because Tifa presses a hand against a livid Barret’s chest to settle him down. When Cloud catches Barret’s eye, he wants to laugh. Barret looks like he’s halfway to an aneurysm.</p><p> </p><p>Yuffie single-handedly beating Reno, Rude, and even Cid at one drinking game after another. Reno and Yuffie trade barbs like it’s a race, each more outlandish than the last. He doesn’t know if they’re fighting or flirting and by the looks of it, neither do they.</p><p> </p><p>Marlene dragging a reluctant Vincent away from his usual shadowy corner towards the jukebox. But he relents in the end, skillfully guiding Marlene into a series of spins until she’s dizzy and giggling and Vincent is almost smiling. Almost.</p><p> </p><p>Aerith is at her best here, flitting from person to person and group to group, like she’s known them all for years. She’s a magnificent whirlwind. Sometimes he just watches her, the way her hands dance when she talks or the way her green eyes brighten when she laughs. He traces the curls running down her back with his gaze. There's an errant one that's caught on the delicate strap of her pale violet slip dress. He doesn't think. He unfurls it and guides it home over her shoulder, his fingertips dragging across her bare skin. He wants to drag the strap, the dress down too. He doesn’t. Not yet.</p><p> </p><p>She wiggles her eyebrows at him and laces her fingers through his. He follows her warm, steady grasp for the rest of the night, as she weaves them deftly to each of their friends. Where his mind blanks, she coaxes him into the conversation as effortless as breathing. Where he gets annoyed at the pointless small talk, she laughs and rolls with every roadblock, until he can’t remember why he was annoyed in the first place.  </p><p> </p><p>She is the lighthouse guiding him home.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It gets too rowdy for him. The incessant chatter, the jarring clink of glasses, the guests packed into the bar like sardines—he breaks into a cold sweat. His head spins and his pulse races and his lungs gasp for air, like he’s gearing up for yet another battle that will never come.</p><p> </p><p>It never makes sense. But it’s even worse now—because he’s surrounded by people he’s fought alongside—people he trusts without reservation. He <em>knows</em> Barret and Red XIII would die protecting Aerith. He <em>knows</em> Tifa, Vincent, and Yuffie have his back.</p><p> </p><p>And yet there’s a dark voice that slices through. That tells him that he’ll never be safe, and he’ll never be able to save anyone either. It’s familiar. The voice has chased him for so long that the tenor and rasp is embedded in his mind. He can feel it down his spine. It’s the one voice he wishes he could forget.</p><p> </p><p>Aerith is always first to notice, a little furrow appearing between her brows. She steps close to him and takes his hand, squeezing it hard. He blinks at her lips as she says something to him, but he’s not listening. He’s drowning.</p><p> </p><p>It's Barret who swoops in this time. The big man pulls him away from the hubbub and Cloud follows wordlessly, chucking away his suit jacket somewhere behind the bar.</p><p> </p><p>The night air is hot and humid, but it hits like a cold wave on his skin. He loosens his collar hurriedly as they sit off the edge of the back porch. It’s quiet out here—exactly what he needs. He slumps against the railing, running his hands over his face in relief.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually his lungs seem to be able to draw breath again. That’s when Cloud realizes that Barret is still there, pointedly turned away to give him space, but waiting.</p><p> </p><p>Casually, Barret hands him a cigar and lights them both. His bow tie hangs loose from his collar and his perma-stubble has returned with a vengeance.</p><p> </p><p>Cloud takes a puff, and it burns his throat, the taste bitter and acrid. He turns away from Barret, his face beet red trying to hold back his cough.</p><p> </p><p>Barret chuckles, with a clap on Cloud’s back that forces it out. “You ain’t never tried one before? Let me show you how it’s done.”</p><p> </p><p>Cloud blinks back tears, still retching. He gives up trying to look cool and watches Barret closely.</p><p> </p><p>“Puff on it a little to get the embers goin’ and enjoy the flavor,” Barret says, drawing his cheeks full of air and exhales out, the grey smoke drifting silky smooth into the night. “Nice and slow. But make damn sure you don’t inhale it.” Then he blows on the lit end of the cigar. “You want an even burn.”</p><p> </p><p>Cloud tries it, coughing a little less this time. By the third puff, he’s starting the taste the flavor Barret’s talking about, even if his throat feels raw as hell.</p><p> </p><p>They lift their cigars in a little toast.</p><p> </p><p>“Congratulations, man,” Cloud rasps, “You guys are perfect together.”</p><p> </p><p>Barret nods warmly. “Means a lot coming from you.”</p><p> </p><p>Cloud hesitates before he adds, “And…thanks for your help in there. I don’t want to be a pain on your wedding day.”</p><p> </p><p>Barret waves it all away. “We all came out of that fight with scars. You…more than anyone. I get it.”</p><p> </p><p>Cloud’s relief is palpable; the tension floods out of him. He exhales the cigar smoke in a rush.</p><p> </p><p>“You know we got your back, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Cloud replies. And he does—it just doesn’t feel right to burden them with it. It’s just something he needs to get over, and soon.</p><p> </p><p>“Besides,” Barret adds, with a smug grin, “it ain’t the first time you’re a pain in my ass, and I’m damn sure it won’t be the last.”</p><p> </p><p>Cloud smirks and flicks his cigar ashes at him.</p><p> </p><p>It’s easy in a way that it wasn’t in the beginning.</p><p> </p><p>Just him and Barret and the slums.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Cloud drives them home well past midnight, Aerith snoozing away in the passenger seat, his suit jacket draped around her shoulders. The dark is impenetrable, and the roads are blessedly empty. It was a good day—a great day. He’s actually glad Aerith dragged him out.</p><p> </p><p>But the silence is heavy, drawing out all the thoughts and memories he worked so hard to keep at bay. He’s either lost in a torrent of memories or he’s incessantly scanning the road, wondering what the night hides from him. A wild chocobo? Or worse? He doesn’t know what could be worse—the things he knows are out there or the things even he can’t fathom.</p><p> </p><p>His hands ache from white-knuckling the steering wheel. <em>Get over it</em>, he tells himself, rolling his tense shoulders. He fought off a small army on an ancient Hardy-Daytona motorcycle—and sweated far less than this.</p><p> </p><p>And now…now it’s been two years since he’s ridden Fenrir.</p><p> </p><p>He tries to focus on his breathing. Focus on the little cab of the truck, the feel of the faux-leather gear shift in his hand. The cold air venting directly onto his face. Aerith’s little snores, the ones she makes when she’s tipsy. Her scent. Daisies.</p><p> </p><p>When he gets really amped up, when the twenty minutes feels like an hour, he puts his hand on her knee and rubs circles into her skin. He likes to pretend he’s reminding her that he’s here for her. He likes to pretend that when she stirs and takes his hand in hers, he’s reassuring her that everything will be okay, that they’ll get home safe and sound.</p><p> </p><p>When they arrive, he takes a minute to wipe the sweat off his brow before he carries her into their little farmhouse. Even though she insists blearily that she’s not <em>that</em> drunk. Even though she nearly tips over when he sets her onto her feet in their room.</p><p> </p><p>It’s instant— he’s more at ease here, like the world sharpening into focus. Suddenly, there’s color everywhere he looks, even in the moonlight—the mismatched prints of the sheets and duvet, the tie-dyed curtains, the art that hangs on the green walls—Aerith’s whimsical paintings. The tension clinging to him just melts away.</p><p> </p><p>He turns on the bedside lamp and guides her down to sit on their bed. Aerith watches him with hooded eyes as he kneels in front of her, lifting each calf to ease her shoes off her feet. He doesn’t know how she walks in those contraptions, but damn if he doesn’t love how they make her legs look. When he’s done, she hooks her legs around his back and pulls him into her, so he’s kneeling right in between her thighs. Her violet dress rides up dangerously, exposing her milky skin.</p><p> </p><p>She cups his face gently. “You’re okay, right?”</p><p> </p><p>He knows she’s asking about his “episode” at the party. He’d rather think about her thighs. “I’m fine.”</p><p> </p><p>She tilts her head, scanning his expression. “I’m drunk, not blind, Cloud.” Her thumb strokes his cheek. “I’m worried about you. I wonder… if it’s time to talk to someone.”</p><p> </p><p>Cloud knows she’s right, even though he’d rather dance naked at the Honeybee Inn than talk about it. “Maybe tomorrow.” He thinks he means it.</p><p> </p><p>“Cloud, you know I love you, right?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, pressing a kiss to her rose petal lips.</p><p> </p><p>“I love all of you. All of your scars. Everything. Even the stubborn bits.” She pokes him gently in his chest. “So, I know it’ll take time. But I’ll be here for all of it. I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know what to say so he just nods again. If the tables were turned, he’d carry her across the continent on foot to get her the help she needed. He’d do it in a heartbeat.</p><p> </p><p>But when it’s for him it’s just…hard.</p><p> </p><p>So, he kisses her. He pours every ounce of feeling he doesn’t want to admit he has into it. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. He’s just…trying. It’s like opening a door to a hurricane, and everything seems to flood in. He clutches her desperately, the only thing keeping him from being lost in the torrent.</p><p> </p><p>She kisses him back, sweet and unhurried. Her lips are soft and inviting, and he inhales the heady moonshine on her breath. It slows him down. It closes the door. She’s steady and solid. She’s not a memory. She’s real.</p><p> </p><p>“Promise me,” She says when she pulls away.</p><p> </p><p>“I promise,” he replies, his heart racing. He means it this time.</p><p> </p><p>“You better,” she whispers and then she kisses him again. A different kiss. Deeper, more languid. Her tongue presses against his bottom lip eagerly. She starts on his shirt buttons, her fingers quick and nimble considering how much she drank. His skin pebbles at her touch, the way she runs her hands all over his chest. She discards his shirt behind her.</p><p> </p><p>He sweeps her hair over her shoulders and draws her dress straps off her shoulders like he’d wanted to all night, kissing that smooth skin. She’s so small in his arms, so perfect. He rolls down the dress bit by bit and kisses every inch he reveals. He buries himself in her.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve waited for this all day,” she murmurs into his hair. She’s the chattiest person he knows, even when they make love. “Maybe you should wear a suit more often.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope. Never again,” he replies with mock-seriousness, knowing it’ll make her laugh.</p><p> </p><p>And she does, although her breath hitches as he cups her breasts. He memorizes her like it’s the first time. How she’s just big enough to fill his hands. How tiny freckles speckle her chest from the hours she spends in the sun. How she sighs at his touch.</p><p> </p><p>“They looked so happy today, so in love,” she muses, undoing the buttons on his pants. “Makes me think about our wedding.” He sucks in a breath at her touch, as she finds a gentle rhythm along his length.</p><p> </p><p>It feels so good. He closes his eyes. “Our wedding, huh?” he says against her skin, to remind himself. He gently pulls her hand away before she gets too carried away and continues to tug her dress down to her hips. She lies back and he peels it right off. The rest of his clothes follow.</p><p> </p><p>He kneels over her on the bed, his hands bracketing her hips. He takes in the way the moonlight from the window skims the curve of her waist, the swells of her breasts, the red flush in her cheeks. Her curls spill off the bed. She is heavenly.</p><p> </p><p>“We were so in love,” she says, wistfully, her emerald eyes glittering. She reaches her hand out to him.</p><p> </p><p>He takes it and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “Are we not in love now?” He asks wryly.</p><p> </p><p>Her gaze softens. “It was different, then. We were young and innocent. I think I assumed that the hard part was over.”</p><p> </p><p>He remembers. When they beat Sephiroth for good and proved those visions of the future wrong, he felt invincible. So, it was the easiest thing in the world to exchange vows of forever, surrounded by their friends in her garden. It was the happy ending he thought he deserved.</p><p> </p><p>He searches her expression, suddenly feeling unsteady. He doesn’t feel like that anymore. “Do you…miss it?”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles at him and threads her fingers through his firmly, like she knows what he’s really asking. “I would never give up the life we have now.” She tugs him closer, until he presses his body down into her. The feel of her, skin to skin, feels right. “It was tough building this together. But it’s <em>ours</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>And it’s exactly what he needs to hear.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches between them and guides him inside her. When he feels how wet she is already, he groans, gripping her thighs as she wraps them around his hips. “Besides,” she says as she rocks up into him, teasing, always teasing, “I think I love you more now than I did then.”</p><p> </p><p>He hisses with every thrust, clinging to her tightly as if he could slow her pace, control her, even though he has no chance in hell. But that’s what he loves most about her. Her wildness. She is fierce and untamed and yet she chooses to be his.</p><p> </p><p>She shifts her weight to the side, and he lets her flip them so he’s at her mercy. She closes her eyes as she rides him, clutching his chest for stability. His eyes rake across her breasts as they bounce with each thrust, her hair as it cascades down her body when she tosses her head back in pleasure. He’s transfixed. He understands those tales of old now, of wily sirens luring sailors to shipwreck. He would smile even as she pulled him into the ocean deep; he would follow his wife even to his ruin.</p><p> </p><p>She sees it, she must, because she slows down and it’s a divine torture. The hot slide of her from tip to base makes him grit his teeth. He tries counting backwards from a hundred, tries thinking of Bugenhagen in his scholarly robes—anything to stay afloat.</p><p> </p><p>Her lips curl into a little devilish smile, like she knows what he’s thinking. Then she leans forward, bobbing up and down just on his tip. She’s so slick and tight and <em>perfect</em>. When he sees stars, he knows he’s in real trouble.</p><p> </p><p>“Aerith, wait,” he gasps, lifting her hips up and away before she can grind into him again.</p><p> </p><p>She grins as she leans down and kisses him. “I love when you look at me like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Her curls fall over them, and he sweeps them back so he can see her face in the shadowy mix of pale moonlight and warm lamp light. She’s so beautiful, it makes his chest ache. “You’re going to be the death of me,” Cloud mutters, panting.</p><p> </p><p>She giggles. “But what a way to go, right?”</p><p> </p><p>The way she looks at him, her eyes wide and sweet. He’s reminded of that night in Evergreen Park before the world fell apart. When they sat on top of the slide, just the two of them. He stared out at the lights on the plate, pretending they were stars. Pretending he wouldn’t have to leave her. He remembers it because it was one of the first times that he let himself stop and breathe.</p><p> </p><p>That’s what it feels like when he’s with her. Like he can breathe.</p><p> </p><p>He wishes he could say it—what she means to him. How much he needs her. How much he loves her. How much he’ll always love her.</p><p> </p><p>“Aerith,” he tries but that’s all that comes out. Suddenly, words just aren’t enough. He’s just…not enough.</p><p> </p><p>She tilts her head at him.</p><p> </p><p>He looks away, feeling hot. “Never mind.”</p><p> </p><p>She traces a heart against his shoulder. “You’re looking at me with those serious eyes again.”</p><p> </p><p>Cloud hesitates, banishing his feeble courage, and says instead, “I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I love you too.” Aerith looks at him steadily, curiously. She seems to know that it’s not exactly what he wants to say to her. But it seems to be enough.</p><p> </p><p>He’s lucky it’s enough for her. He doesn’t want to think about what would happen if suddenly one day it isn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Cloud holds her, presses her flush against him, trying to remind himself that she’s still his. And if he doesn’t screw it all up, if he can just keep it together long enough to protect her, she might always be. He kisses her desperately and she follows his lead this time, moaning against his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>He flips them over, pressing his weight into her, wanting to feel every inch of her skin. The feel of her, it’s familiar—comforting. She watches him with her lips parted in anticipation, back arching into him, as he works his way down her body. He knows her the way he knows the balance of his sword. He knows where she likes to be bruised, and where she needs him to be tender. He knows what will make her eyes roll back with pleasure and what will make her giggle sweetly.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not tired of it. Not even a little. Not even after all these years.</p><p> </p><p>He strokes her center with his fingers first and then with his tongue, lapping up her taste. She moans loudly, clutching his hair in her fists, and it all goes straight to his cock, but he doesn’t lose focus. He wants to show her what he can’t say. He wants to prove something, even if he doesn’t know what.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh Cloud,” she pants, “it’s so good.” He draws circles around the little bundle of nerves at her center until she is taut and quaking. He flattens his hand across her bucking hips and quickens the pace until her heels dig into his back. The way she’s laid out squirming in front of him, the taste of her on his tongue, her pupils blown black—it’s all he needs. He feels the storm coming and throws himself headfirst into it.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Cloud</em>,” she gasps, and he feels the rise and fall of it like thunder across the plains. He rides it out with her until her body is soft and breathless. And then he holds her, burying his face in her neck, in her warmth.</p><p> </p><p>“My husband,” she murmurs, tiredly, wonderfully spent. He grips her tight, afraid she might suddenly disappear and take his whole world with her.</p><p> </p><p><em>I’m shipwrecked without you, </em>he thinks to her. <em>You’re home. You’re everything.</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The bliss of the wedding and the weekend fades far too quickly for his liking. Monday arrives, garish and foreboding.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t want to get out of bed when his alarm trills. So he doesn’t. He covers his face with the sheets and keeps hitting snooze.</p><p> </p><p>It feels like he hasn’t slept at all.</p><p> </p><p>When he finally rolls out of bed, his body aches like he’s aged twenty years overnight. Even under the hot spray of the shower, he’s sluggish. He blinks through the steam and idly wonders if he’s still dreaming.</p><p> </p><p>The minute he clomps down the stairs and into the kitchen, he feels Aerith’s gaze on him. It’s piercing and hot. He tries to ignore it, but he’s never been able to ignore her.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” he snaps at last, after he’s loaded the truck and returns to the house.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not usually so…forgetful.” She leans towards him, hands clasped behind her back, forcing him to look her in the eye.</p><p> </p><p>He grabs his forgotten coffee off the counter behind her. She smells like sweat and dirt from the morning’s harvest. “I’m fine,” he mutters.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you really?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m late for the delivery, remember?”</p><p> </p><p>She gives him a flat look. “You’re always late.”</p><p> </p><p>Cloud sighs. “I have to go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then go,” she says. But she leans back onto the counter, crossing one ankle over the other, and it feels like a taunt.</p><p> </p><p>Something hot and ugly rises up in his chest. He wants to prove her wrong. But he can’t. It’s like his legs are stone. He doesn’t get it. He faced down the legendary Sephiroth and won. But <em>this</em> is what gets to him? Driving a fucking truck all day? It’s nothing. It should be nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Why isn’t it nothing?</p><p> </p><p>Aerith waits and waits, her patience immeasurable. But he’s hot under her gaze. It’s failure. Humiliation.</p><p> </p><p>He’s stuck; rooted too deep into the past. The familiar tension builds in his chest. That aching, trembling tightness. It wants to explode; <em>he</em> wants to explode. It’s not fair, and nobody understands—not even her. And if <em>Aerith </em>of all people can’t understand, then he’s deeply and truly fucked.</p><p> </p><p>The grenade is heavier than ever. He desperately wishes he could pull the pin.</p><p> </p><p>Wouldn’t it save everyone so much pain if he did? Then everyone could get on with their life, without a deadweight like him holding them back. Just as he was never good enough to be a SOLDIER, he’s a terrible husband and an even shittier friend.  </p><p> </p><p>He’s ready to hurl his travel mug out the window, to slam his fist through the cupboard, to scream until his lungs burn.</p><p> </p><p>But he doesn’t. He looks at her first. It’s second nature; it’s instinct.</p><p> </p><p>Cloud goes still at her expression. He sees the impenetrable mask she puts up when she’s afraid. There’s steel in her eyes, despite the casual way her hands are folded in front of her.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers how she squared off against Sephiroth. She seemed so calm each time they faced him, even though they were all desperately outmatched. She didn’t so much as grimace after she nearly died at the Forgotten City.</p><p> </p><p>It was afterwards that she crumbled. Long after the battles, in the dead of night. Where he found her curled into a ball, as far from everyone as she could crawl. Sobbing quietly into her hands.</p><p> </p><p>And every time, he curled up next to her, stroking her hair until she drifted to sleep. He made a promise to her then. She would never fear anything again.</p><p> </p><p>Cloud clutches his head. Is that who he’ll become if he pulls the pin? A monster like <em>him</em>?</p><p> </p><p>“Cloud?” She asks, the worry simmering just beneath the surface. His head spins.</p><p> </p><p>He knows what he needs to do. But suddenly, just like before, the words have vanished. He runs his hand through his hair and that’s when he realizes he’s pacing. He sets his mug down with a clumsy clatter. He stops, presses his back into the edge of the counter until it bites, but his mind keeps going.</p><p> </p><p>“I…”</p><p> </p><p>Aerith leans forward, nodding encouragingly.</p><p> </p><p>Cloud squeezes his eyes shut. It’s like he’s two feet tall, but he needs to do it. Because he’s broken his promise. He’s scaring her. He’s scaring himself too.</p><p> </p><p>“There is…There’s something wrong with me.” When he finally says it, he crumples, his legs like jelly. He slides down the counter until his ass hits the ground. He rubs his face hard, as if he could scrub the feelings away. “And…I don’t know what to do.”</p><p> </p><p>Instantly, he wishes he could take the words back. He wishes he could go back in time, back before it went all wrong, back to their wedding day. Where living was so easy, happiness was so easy. Because it was right before his eyes. It was already in his hands—her. Aerith, their friends; a strange little family—it was enough.</p><p> </p><p><em>He</em> was enough.</p><p> </p><p>He’s shaking now. Maybe he was fooling himself. Maybe Sephiroth was right all along. He's not fit to protect anyone. Least of all the woman he loves. Least of all himself.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he never was.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what to do,” he says again into his empty hands. He is crushingly numb under the weight of his inertia.</p><p> </p><p>She sits beside him. Her voice breaks through the tumult. It’s clear and calm. “It’s okay, Cloud. It’s okay. You don’t have to know.” She draws a shaky breath. “You’ve been through so much. Too much. It’s not fair.”</p><p> </p><p>She takes his hands, her small hands gripping him harder than he thought possible. Her skin is warm. Her green eyes are still so bright and sweet. It amazes him that she still looks at him like that, even though he’s a shadow of the man he was. “You’ve done so much for me, for all of us. You are the strongest man I know.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles even though tears shine thick in her eyes. “So, it’s okay. It’s okay to stop and rest. We’ll figure it out.”</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head. “What about…the delivery?” They’ve worked so hard to build the business together. He doesn’t want to mess it up, not for him, not for something so dumb.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll let them know something urgent came up. They’ll understand.” She sees him try to protest again and cuts him off. She’s unwavering. “I’ll make them understand.”</p><p> </p><p>He just stares at her.</p><p> </p><p>Then she touches his cheek, impossibly gentle. Her love for him shines through, like the sun peeking through the rain. It’s more than he deserves. “Cloud, it’s okay. You can rest now.”</p><p> </p><p>He exhales loudly. He doesn’t know what he feels. He just knows she’s here, she’s <em>still</em> here, somehow, even though he’s nothing, even though he’s crumbling to ash.</p><p> </p><p>She nods reassuringly, her thumb rubbing circles into his skin. She’s easing the grenade from him and asking a question all at the same time. He knows what it is. It’s a language all their own.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Let me help.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t want it. But he knows he needs it.</p><p> </p><p>So, he nods back.</p><p> </p><p>He saves her; she saves him; round and round it goes.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Six months later</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s dark and a lot later than he’d planned to be. As he pulls in and kills the engine in front of their little farmhouse, relief washes over him.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a testament to how far he’s come that it’s only a little bit of relief.</p><p> </p><p>Aerith bounces out of the passenger seat and heads towards the truck bed. He hustles out to catch her. He pulls her away from the truck, threading his fingers through hers. “We can unload it tomorrow. I’m tired.”</p><p> </p><p>She lets him, even though she trails behind reluctantly, her eyes darting from the truck to him to the dark house and back. “You’re walking awfully fast for being tired.”</p><p> </p><p>He hides a smile. “It’s called energy conservation. Sooner I can sit down, the better.”</p><p> </p><p>Aerith shakes her head, her hair bobbing around her. He loves it long and loose so she wears it down for him on the weekends. It’s the best kind of distraction. “That’s not how that works, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>She’s taking too long so he reels her in, pressing a quick kiss to the side of her neck. “Know-it-all,” he mutters into her ear.</p><p> </p><p>Her eye-roll in response is visceral, he can feel it even though he can’t see it.</p><p> </p><p>And then he’s back on mission, ushering her up the porch steps with his hands encircling her waist.</p><p> </p><p>He holds the screen door open for her as she unlocks the front door. She crosses the threshold muttering, “If there’s frost tonight and the crops go bad, I’m gonna—"</p><p> </p><p>The lights flicker on.</p><p> </p><p>“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”</p><p> </p><p>A cacophony of cheers and confetti engulfs them. Their home is packed, filled to bursting. Their friends, the (former) Turks, the elders from Sector 5, and even the old Wall Market Trio are in attendance. It’s utter madness as Yuffie and the kids from the Leaf House prance around and throw confetti like their lives depend on it. Cloud is still shocked that they all fit into the little farmhouse.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t get to see Aerith’s face but she’s frozen in front of him, her keys jangling haplessly in her hand. Her head jerks back and forth, taking in everyone. Red XIII blinking grumpily, covered in rainbow streamers. Barret, Tifa and Marlene blowing on party kazoos until they’re red in the face. Even Vincent has a kazoo raised to his lips (Marlene’s doing, no doubt), even if he’s not actually blowing.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, Aerith laughs, throwing her head back in glee. “How?!” She shrieks excitedly, practically bouncing. “I thought you were all out of town?!”</p><p> </p><p>Cid clears his throat and the kids around him scatter. He’s seated cross-legged on the floor beside Red, also covered in streamers. “Lucky for you fuc—uh…punks, you got a real pilot in your midst,” He mutters as smugly as you can with a cone birthday hat strapped to your head. An unlit cigarette bobs between his lips.</p><p> </p><p>Cloud tries not to laugh and ushers her further into the house, so she can be truly surrounded by all their friends. Aerith grabs his forearm. “Wait, did you do this?” She asks him, tears welling in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>As he shuts the door behind him, he hesitates, clutching the doorknob, an old voice rising in the back of his mind. <em>You fool. You don’t deserve any of this. Stop pretending.</em> He pushes it back, desperately.</p><p> </p><p>“It was his idea,” Elmyra says, peering over from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She gives him an approving nod, which given their history, Cloud is eager and grateful to return.</p><p> </p><p>He turns around and feels forty pairs of eyes dart to him. He still can’t help but flush, the heat crawling up his neck.</p><p> </p><p>Barret pipes up. “He did everything, even coordinated our rides! That’s why you didn’t see any cars parked outside.”</p><p> </p><p>Cloud glares. <em>Damn him.</em></p><p> </p><p>“He’s been planning it since <em>forever</em>,” Yuffie exclaims, popping up from a behind a cluster of children. “Knew Cid was coming to Wutai to pick me up since September.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, that’s enough,” he growls, positioning Aerith in front of him like a shield so she can deservingly claim the attention. “Here’s the birthday girl.”</p><p> </p><p>Even so, Aerith grins at him over her shoulder, squeezing his hand before he can withdraw it. She doesn’t have to say anything. He knows.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Thank you.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>He nods.</p><p> </p><p>And then she turns and commands the room, chatting with four different people at once, rainbow confetti clinging to her hair. She is sunshine and he is spellbound.</p><p> </p><p>He steps back, drifting towards Vincent until he’s leaning against the same wall. Wordlessly, he hands him an extra kazoo and Cloud blows on it casually. Just to test it out.</p><p> </p><p>Vincent’s mouth twitches.</p><p> </p><p>He watches the party with a hard-earned peace. The room is packed and, for once, he’s not running off in a panic. For once, he can see it as it is. Full of safety and laughter and joy.</p><p> </p><p><em>They deserve better than you,</em> the voice whispers. <em>You’re always dragging them down.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>His peace wavers. But only just.</p><p> </p><p>He takes a breath and then exhales slowly to counts of four. A skill his therapist taught him. He does that a few times before he feels that ugly specter retreat.</p><p> </p><p><em>No,</em> he thinks to himself. <em>I did this. I brought them together. I deserve this.</em></p><p> </p><p>And as if on cue, Marlene comes over, shockingly tall now, the top of her head to his waist. Her hands are clasped behind her and she leans into him with her big brown eyes, forcing him to look at her. Grimly, he wonders where she learned that from.</p><p> </p><p>“Uncle Cloud,” Marlene says, so deceptively sweet in her new purple dress, “Me and the Leaf House kids want you to play with us.”</p><p> </p><p>Vincent gives him a loud clap on the shoulder. “Uncle Cloud would love to.” The cheer from the eavesdropping Leaf House kids stops him from refusing outright.</p><p> </p><p>He glares at Vincent, wishing he could wipe that smirk off his face. Luckily, before he can formulate a reply without swearing, Marlene tugs on Vincent’s red cape. “Good! You’re coming, too, right Uncle Vincent?”</p><p> </p><p>The smirk disappears and Cloud turns away to hide his chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>Cloud pretends to frown as Marlene takes both of their hands and drags them along with surprising strength. The frown stays even when he glances at Vincent, who suddenly seems to be contemplating shape-shifting to flee their predicament. It’s only when Aerith catches his eye from across the room that what he really feels inside bursts out of him.</p><p> </p><p>He grins.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’m exactly where I belong.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Me: Let’s contribute a little fluffy domestic Clerith ficlet for Aerith Week!</p><p>My Clerith-trash brain: How about 6700 words with Cloud learning to express feelings and grappling with PTSD</p><p>Me: Oookay then maybe a team fic?</p><p>Clerith brain: *pours in smut*</p><p>Me: </p><p>Anywho, this was a tough one to write for a few reasons but especially the subject matter and the experimental POV (for me). I hope I did it justice. Let me know what you think!</p><p>PS: I started this before <i>strawberries and gin</i> so don’t worry! I’m still working on fluff... but the muse is one strange mistress…</p></blockquote></div></div>
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